Can you believe it?  With today’s prompt we celebrate the completion of our second full year at POETIC BLOOMINGS. We have explored many ideas and forms, and we published our first collection – POETIC BLOOMINGS – The First Year. The gears are in motion for our second installment. We have completed an ambitious twenty-week MEMOIR CHAPBOOK PROJECT with amazing results.We have supported and nurtured one another, celebrated and mourned, and we stand as strong as ever going into our third year.

Marie and I hope you continue to plant your poetic seeds in our garden and share in the bouquet of beauty that grows here each week.


Now our prompt: Time flies when you’re having fun! We’ve heard that throughout our lives. In the movies, time passing is depicted as a clock or sundial in time-lapse photography in rapid motion. We see hair gray up and other parts sag down. So for this poem, we want you to write a poem that shows the passing of time. The first part will center upon something you enjoyed or did as a child. The second part will focus on your perspective on that activity and how age has changed/enhanced your vision.

We thank you so much for your participation and continued support. WE ARE ALL POETIC BLOOMINGS! Grow beautifully!


“The pourer is considered the guardian of the teapot, which implies sterling social graces and profound trust.”  ~  Mike Lininger (Editor, Etiquette Scholar)


My cousin Tom and me

Growing up together

Play clothes and bare feet
Giggles galore
Teensy Dixie bathroom cups
Grandma’s garden hose
Sipping “tea”
Distended tummies
              Little ones
             Bathroom runs
 Decades flee
Family gatherings
Memories revisited
(Teasing notwithstanding)
We’ll never live it down
              Giggles galore
              You pour
 © Copyright Marie Elena Good – 2013
Tom and me again

early twenties

Tom and me with Sophie

early fifties

Love ya, Cuz!



Along the railroad tracks
behind my grandfather’s garden,
Smokes Creek winds a serpentine
path rushing to feed Erie’s ravenous
hunger. A sloping bank beneath the trellis;
a bamboo pole and can of worms,
tranquility comes in nary a nibble.
The act becomes the pact made
between me and the Maker.
A good escape for a fish faker.

I have not found such serenity
since youth had offered its kind hand,
it’s every man for himself and a shelf full
of life that happens at the speed of sound.
If I wasn’t grounded I would have found
a replacement, a place meant to give me peace.
But memory is a strong bridge, reaching back
to grab lost moments in mind. I can return
with my eyes closed, knowing my seat
on the sloping bank awaits. Worms optional.

© Copyright Walter J. Wojtanik – 2013